


Somebody To Love

by lustig



Series: The Trevilieu Queeniverse [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Prompt Fill, Queen music, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 08:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12701571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: Richelieu and his drunken thoughts on The Incident in "Save Me".Prompt Fill and additional scene for said fic.





	Somebody To Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreyaLor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/gifts).



> The explanation of why the relationship blew up. Blame Freya.
> 
> Or, more precisely, my answer to this prompt of hers:  
>  _Côtes du Rhône : Armand is in a club, late at night. Can be alone or not, but thing is, he's drunk. He emptied a bottle of very mediocre Côtes du Rhône, which is a rich, bitter red wine. As music plays, he starts laughing to himself. Really, genuinely laughing. Why? It's up to you._

 

 

The club was slowly clearing itself of the nightly crowd. This late most of the patrons had finally started to make their way home. Only a handful of people were still left, sitting alone or in pairs at max and quietly nursing their drinks.

 

 _Don’t look at the others._ That seemed to be the only rule. _Don’t judge the others_. No one who was here at this time of night – or this early in the morning, as one could call it now – had any other place to go.

 

 

 

Armand was drunk. He was really, truly, horribly pissed. A bottle of a dark, bitter red wine stood in front of him, no glass. It might have been the first. It might have been the third. Or the fourth. He couldn’t recall. He couldn’t care less.

 

Everything was a blur, a drunken haze induced by the Côtes du Rhône.

 

He felt empty, hollow. The wine hadn’t resulted in the desired effect.

 

His life felt unreal, like a joke, like someone was playing a prank on him. He took another long sip, wincing after he gulped the dark red down.

 

 

 

When Louis had called him that day he had expected a lot. But not that. Not that stern, serious gaze on the always friendly, always cheerful heir of the Bourbon Empire.

 

“Armand,” he had started, his voice too calm, too controlled. “You have worked for my company in a most extraordinary manner. You have shown the utmost reliability and savvy these last few years – since you joined us, basically – and you helped us through many major and minor crises. Without you, we wouldn’t be where we are now. And we – that means the management and me – wanted to thank you for that.”

 

He had smiled for the first time in this whole conversation, then, while Richelieu got more and more anxious with every word that left his superior.

 

“You’ve probably heard about Concini’s decision to retire, haven’t you?”

 

The older man nodded carefully, he had. Even if there were also rumours that Concini hadn’t made this decision entirely of his own free will.

 

“I’ll make this short. We want to offer you his position. We discussed your role and reputation in Bourbon and we all agreed that you’re our most suitable candidate.”

 

Richelieu couldn't believe his ears. He felt elated, nearly giddy – he didn’t show, of course, but he couldn’t suppress a small, delighted smile.

 

Louis didn’t return it.

 

 “Just a few days after this discussion it came to our attention that… you’re apparently in some kind of a strange relationship with another man – and have been living like this for quite some time now.”

 

Richelieu paled, his hands busying themselves behind his back, while he stood a little straighter.

 

“Yes, I have. What of it?”

 

“We… Bourbon promotes a certain kind of beliefs, as you very well know.” Louis looked down to his desk and continued, more quietly, “Sodomy is not one of them.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“The management would like to offer you an ultimatum – You can rise into the vacant position but you have to leave the sinner's life you’re living behind you – or you leave. In disgrace.”

 

The heir didn’t raise his head during those words. Richelieu felt his fingernails breaking the skin of his palms.

 

“If – when you come back on Monday, we will assume that you got rid of this problem.” He finally looked up again. “We can’t afford to lose you, Armand. And I don’t want to,” he added quietly. His gaze was pleading.

 

“I…,” the older man started, at a complete loss, only to fall silent again after mere moments.

 

“You have the rest of the day off. We will talk again after the weekend. Go now.”

 

Richelieu obeyed. He walked out of the bureau, out of the building in a daze, still unable to comprehend what he had heard. Leaving Jean was not an option.

 

 

 

He couldn’t remember much from what had happened afterwards. He had walked around for a long time, completely aimless, and found himself at the door of their house somewhere after nightfall.

 

He needed to discuss this with Jean. He’d know what to do. He’d be able to help. He’d pull him into his arms, press a soft kiss to his already silvery curls and tell him that everything would be alright.

 

The door unlocked with a hesitant _click_ and Armand found himself in the entrance of their completely unlit house. Queen was running, a clear sign that Jean had to be home.

 

“You’re late,” he suddenly heard and realised two important things in the very same moment.

 

First, for the whole time they had known each other, had been together, it had always been Jean who waited at home for his husband to come back – sometimes for hours. He couldn’t recall a single time where his lover hadn’t stayed up, sitting on the sofa and listening to Freddie Mercury, greeting him with a warm and happy smile whenever he had finally turned up, tired and drawn out.

 

There had been too many times where something work-related kept him from coming in before midnight or even later and far too often with a burning headache and in terrible mood. Jean had suffered through all of it, staying at his side and massaging his temples until he’d finally been able to relax again, just being there or listening to his angry rambles without even been asked to.

 

Jean was there and he was real and wonderful and the kindest, sweetest, most considerate human being Armand had ever encountered. And for the life of him he couldn’t understand why that man still kept up with him.

 

He was never at home. He was moody and brooding and unsocial and more often than not quite the pain in the ass.

 

Jean Treville deserved better than someone like him.

 

And second, _Jean wouldn’t understand._

 

“Is everything alright?” that pure, beautiful creature asked, reaching for him.

 

Armand felt tears threatening and raised one trembling hand. “Don’t touch me. Please.” _How can you, when I’m thinking about casting you aside for a job offer? When they make me choose between a life in shame and self-hate and one in self-disgust and loneliness? I_ do not _– and never will – deserve you._

 

And then it all went to hell.

 

 

 

He found his way back, out of the darkness his head offered, when Mercury’s voice echoed through the nearly empty club, singing, pleading “ _Caaaan… anybody find meeee -  somebody to love?_ ”

 

He listened to the first few bars and realised, very slowly, that he was _quivering_.

 

Not his usual, anxious tremble but an uncontrollable, _violent_ shaking, centred somewhere mid-belly.

 

Astonished, he opened his mouth, only to snap it shut again a moment later, when a strange sound escaped him.

 

He reached for the half-empty bottle in front of him, missing it on the first try – _where had his usual grace disappeared to? Had it stayed with Jean? Had it left him like he had left Jean?_ – and took a sip to drown out the noise, nearly choking on it.

 

The wine burned down his throat and stomach, making him gasp for air. Yet none of it helped against the low chuckle that continued to break out of his traitorous mouth.

 

Of course they would play Queen now, at this time of night, after he had purposefully destroyed his relationship with the single most wonderful man he had ever met, to the very same music.

 

 _Of course_ they would.

 

He was _so_ drunk.

 

The chuckle grew into a soft laugh, a strange noise, one he was not used to, not at all. It sounded incredibly carefree, amused. Like it belonged to someone else.

 

Another dram found its way down his throat.

 

The first chuckle turned into a painful sob.

 

Someone up there must really, _really_ hate him.

 

Another chuckle changed to the sound of anguish.

 

Jean meant so much to him. But he knew that he didn’t deserve him.

 

This was for the best.

 

_For both of them._

 

They would get over it, eventually. Or Jean, at least. Armand would drown himself in his work. That was the only thing he had left now.

 

Louis would be proud of him.

 

That thought suddenly filled him with less satisfaction than it usually did. It felt hollow, empty. Like him. Pathetic.

 

He buried his face in his arms, pressed onto the table with all the force he could muster, trying to drown the wrenching, heaving breaths in the dark fabric. He heard the bottle toppling over, the dull _clang_ when the glass met the wood. It didn’t matter. The Côtes du Rhône had already been nearly emptied.

 

“ _I'm OK, I'm alright_ ,” Mercury promised, “ _I ain't gonna face no defeat_.”

 

A heavy hand placed itself on his shoulder. It was warm and comforting and somewhat familiar. Soothing. Richelieu turned his head, eyes bloodshot, and softly asked: “Jean?” He sounded pitiful.

 

“Sorry, friend. Not the Jean you’re looking for, I fear. I’ll get you home now, we’re closing.”

 

“Nah. ’m ok, ’m alrigh.”

 

The other man smiled. His eyes softened, warm and kind and of a deep chocolate brown, the wrong colour.

 

“Is there someone I could call to pick you up?” He sat down next to Armand, radiating warmth and comfort. The older man felt himself swaying towards that source of peaceful calm. He needed a few moments to comprehend what the other man had asked.

 

“Anne,” he mumbled sluggishly, reaching for his address book. He found it in the third pocket he tried. He was useless. A disgrace. He couldn’t even accomplish the simplest of tasks.

 

The barkeeper grabbed the book carefully and walked off, to the phone at the register. When the song faded back into nothingness, blissful darkness engulfed the drunk at last.

 

 

 


End file.
